


Black Honey

by Charmtion



Series: Wolf of the North [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ned Stark Lives, Sexual Content, Wolf of the North.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 11:54:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16953525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charmtion/pseuds/Charmtion
Summary: I am Eddard of the House Stark, Wolf of the North, I need no other title.A twist of fate, a sentence of exile: a man changed, a man shaped by the treacheries done unto him, a man with the taste of vengeance spreading like black honey on his tongue.





	Black Honey

This far north the world is ice and snow, hard frost and frozen stone. Breath is smoke; it clouds on the air, lifts and billows like cobwebs shuddering against window panes. It is a cooling balm to the heat of the south. Even here between stout walls, before a fire burning bright as rubies in the hearth, the room is cold as the world without. _That is as it should be_. A Stark is made of ice and snow, hard frost and frozen stone: a Stark sits as a sentinel towers over ironwood. A Stark is the wolf running in the wood, stealthy, lithe, dark as a shadow – until the hunger draws him out from the trees. _Soon, soon_ …

“Winter is coming,” he says.

His voice is rough from misuse; he has not spoken, not a word, not a grunt, not a murmur – all the leagues from the red viper’s pit silence weighed heavy as armour. _A better weight to bear than honour_. A flash of fire in his temple: honour brought him nothing in the end, brought him a dagger to the throat and daughter’s tears, emerald eyes flashing like wildfire, an order of exile. _A bitter cup to drink from_. It choked him on the steps of the seven, tangled his tongue mile by mile, tore his heart to ruby shreds against his ribs. But past the three-forked river, the world changed. From green to gold to ivory: summer to autumn – and here, now, _winter_. This far north the world is ice and snow, hard frost and frozen stone. He breathes and his breath is smoke; it clouds the air, lifts and billows like cobwebs shuddering against window panes. _That is how it should be_. Here, now, in a room cold as the world without, the words spread like honey on his tongue.

“Winter is coming,” he says.

“Aye,” she says. “This may be the last time you feel any warmth.”

If hunger drives the wolf from the wood, what draws the fox out after him? _That is what she is_. The shape of those eyes, the set of those lips, the hair streaming like flame from her head: a fox. The delicate tread of little feet, the growl that threatens every mewl and whine, the scent of wild that clouds her: a fox. _Those eyes_. Honey, liquid as the words dripping from his tongue, sweet and sharp all at once – they hook his soul and draw him out step by step. He frowns, the lines set deep in his brow, cut-creases of skin that knows well the kiss of ice and hard frost – his eyes are the grey of winter storm. Gold and grey, they drink each other.

“You should not be here,” he says.

“Winter is coming,” she says. “This may be the last time you feel any warmth.”

Her steps dip and sway as the flames flicker in the hearth: scarlet rags, silken skirts, twisting, turning, a hundred shades of yellow and orange. Crimson – like the hair that falls rich and free down her back. _A fox_. Wildflowers shine the length of it: pearl and plum and the honey of her eyes. They flash like goldencups as she stands slight as a shadow before him. He looks at her, lip between his teeth, his heart a pulsing ruby against his ribs. Eyes of grey winter storm – and he has the power of storm. There, in the creases of his frown and the hard lines of his lips. Here, in his great hands, rough from life and death, from ice and fire. _Warrior’s hands_. He takes her pale fingers, weaves them with his own: shades of white, ivory and pearl, bleeding, mixing, blending. _That is how it should be_.

The bearskin is gone from her throat. She stands pale as moonstone before him, but her hair is fire, her eyes are honey. Sweet and sharp all at once, she slides onto his lap. He can smell the wildflowers in her hair: ice-blue and ice-cold like winter roses. When she kisses him, her taste clouds his tongue – sweet and sharp, spreading like honey, a warm draught that burns like fire in his belly. His hand brushes the swell of her thigh, travels the silk of it; he parts her with his fingers, she grits her teeth and growls. _A fox, that is what she is_. She is warm and good here between her legs: a glow of warmth that draws the wolf hungry from the wood.

“Winter is coming,” he says. “I may die in its white winds.”

Her mouth is hot on his; fingers of moonstone run through his hair. Her thighs are full, they glow silver in the moonlight. He drinks her taste: sweet and sharp, honey, fireflame – and she runs her hands across the plump muscles of his shoulders, the warrior’s span of his chest, the hard belly, the narrow waist. Black and black and black: boiled leather, wool, furs, cloak. Above, a brother. Beneath, a wolf. _That is how it should be_. He is bare and hard beneath her – they press together, shivering, and find warmth where there is warmth to be found: mouth, cunt, cock, hands – sweet and sharp, spreading like honey in the black room.

“All men must die, Eddard Stark,” she says. “But first we will live.”

They are a pulse of fire in a world of ice. He is sunk inside her, fingers leaving white-hot marks on her hips, her throat a stretch of ivory calling the wolf from the wood. He marks it with his teeth – she is honey in his arms, around his cock, sweet and sharp all at once. Those hands circle the span of her waist, fingers rough on every rib and rise, rising and falling with her breath. _Warrior’s hands_. They have the power of the winter storm that colours his eyes: rough from life and death, from ice and fire. The south tried to strip him of his storm, but he is free from its footholds now. _A bitter cup to drink from_. Dagger and daughter’s tears, emerald eyes and exile… But the world is changed: the cup they gave him is sunk and shadowed and he is still a Stark.

“Winter is coming,” he says. “But here I am warm.”

This far north the world is ice and snow, hard frost and frozen stone. They breathe and their breath is smoke; it clouds the air, lifts and billows like cobwebs shuddering against window panes. _That is how it should be_. But there is fire here amongst the ice. Her hair: flames red and rich as the embers in the hearth. Her eyes: honey, sweet and sharp as the taste of vengeance clouding his tongue. Her growl: pearl teeth and pink tongue, drawing at him, drowning him, striking the flint to fire in his belly. _A fox, that is what she is and what am I?_ Gold and grey, they drink each other – he is alive again. _I am Eddard of the House Stark, Wolf of the North, I need no other title_. His teeth are at her throat, her fingers like ivory clawing at his wild beard: they are winter, wild as its white winds.

Wolf and fox: life and death, ice and fire. _That is how it should be_. Lion and stag: tooth and antler – all fall prey to claw and wolfsong. _And they will fall_. Lion will roar, stag will bellow, wolf will tip back his head and howl, the fox will look with honey eyes and a growl in her throat.

This far north the world is ice and snow, hard frost and frozen stone. Breath is smoke; it clouds on the air, lifts and billows like cobwebs shuddering against window panes. It is a cooling balm to the heat of the south. _Soon they will sing the song of the wolf_. Here between stout walls, before a fire burning bright as rubies in the hearth, the room is a den of crimson, gold and grey. A flash of pearl: they smile at each other – the flames lick at their teeth and dye them blood-red. _That is as it should be_. A Stark is made of ice and snow, hard frost and frozen stone: a Stark sits as a sentinel towers over ironwood. A Stark is the wolf running in the wood, stealthy, lithe, dark as a shadow – until the hunger draws him out from the trees. _Soon, soon_ …

* * *


End file.
